Summary: He'd never bothered to visit one of his victim's homes before. But Edgar was different.
Monochrome
Johnny had felt no particular glimmer of triumph when he killed Edgar Vargas. The killing had lacked any of the assurance that he was doing something better for the world. He wasn't removing one of his tormentors, wasn't killing someone who had made him miserable.
In fact, if only for a brief moment, Nny had felt almost peaceful in the quiet man's presence. There was no screaming, no crying. Only the quiet, even plea for mercy. Rare, for one of his captives to do so little with death so close. Even the calming presence, though, had not been enough to make him reconsider. He heard the man's last words, responded with some of his own, and pressed down on the lever.
Once he'd killed him, he'd dealt with the blood and the body the same way he always did, collecting the fluid with some revulsion and then painting the wall in broad, messy strokes. The body he disposed of in the same way he disposed of all the others. He'd felt a momentary twinge of regret, but a body was a body, and he couldn't let it sit there and rot. He'd need the machine later.
After cleaning up, he had realized with some annoyance that he was hungry. That would mean going out again, and he wasn't terribly keen on the idea. Once was enough for him that night.
He rooted around his derelict kitchen for several minutes, hoping to find some Señor Salsa chips, or perhaps a lone can of Skettios. His search turned up nothing. He supposed he would have to go outside again.
Sighing, he dragged himself towards the bedroom to change out of his blood-stained clothing. Blood seemed to draw unpleasant attention, and that was currently the last thing he wanted.
Heading back from the 24-7, armed with two cans of Skettios and a Cherry Doom Freezy, he drove by the apartment building that Edgar had lived in.
He couldn't remember why he'd picked that particular building, or that particular unit, or its occupant, though he vaguely recalled something about an extraordinarily ugly statue that had graced a yellowing patch of grass in front of the building.
He stopped in front of the building, and considered going inside. He'd never before been curious about one of his victims. He assumed it was because they rarely warranted any sort of interest. But Edgar was different from the others.
Decision made, he parked his car across the street, and made his way to the front door of the building, shuddering as he passed the statue. It truly was horrendous.
Heading up the steps, he noticed the door was slightly open; he must have forgotten to close it behind him when he had dragged Edgar to his car. Slipping inside, he headed down the gray-carpeted hallway to the first unit on the left.
This time, the door was shut, and Johnny had to fiddle with the knob for several seconds before it opened. He stepped inside the entry, expecting to see something that separated Edgar from the rest of the "goblins," something that he had missed and should have seen when he was taking Edgar away. He didn't know what that something was, but he was sure he'd know it when he saw it.
But as he wandered through the apartment, he was forced to acknowledge that there was absolutely nothing unique about the place. The floor was covered in a gray carpet that was slightly cleaner than, but still the same shade as, the carpet in the hallway. The white walls looked dull and unwelcoming in the dark. Silver appliances and white counters lined the walls of the cramped kitchen.
The bedroom would be more interesting, he decided. After all, wasn't a bedroom supposed to be a person's sanctuary, their place to "get away from it all"? He turned the corner to the first door. Bathroom. Boring. Next door, then. There was the bedroom. He slipped inside and shut the door behind him.
A tall, slender bookcase, completely filled with books, sat next to a small dresser that was topped by a television. Stopping in front of the bookcase, he read the titles of the various books. Religious literature, mostly. Some bestsellers, a few nonfiction books on history. Edgar's choice of reading material did not terribly impress him.
The bed was nothing to marvel at. Neatly made up, plain white sheets and a white comforter with white pillowcases. A few strands of hair on one of the pillowcases. Maybe he had been starting to go bald.
Underneath the bed, he found some dusty Playboys. They were dated, from the '70s, he guessed. And they probably hadn't been opened since then, either. A pair of socks that had rolled under the bed and subsequently been forgotten; they were now covered with a thin layer of dust bunnies.
Johnny was growing frustrated. There was absolutely nothing interesting about this man. Nothing. He was just like everyone else, but more…mundane.
Johnny backtracked to the living room. He hadn't inspected things as closely in there, and he wanted to return to that desk he'd seen in the corner. Digging through the drawers, all he came upon was regular office supplies: a few legal pads, some black ballpoint pens, a box of presharpened wooden pencils, a plain black stapler, some paper clips, and a pad of sticky notes.
Boring, boring, boring, boring, boring!
He wanted to drag Edgar in here and ask him what this was all about. Was it some kind of joke? No one could possibly be this uninteresting.
He entertained thoughts of returning home, retrieving Edgar, and forcing the information out of him. But then he realizes that he's already killed the only damn person who could answer his questions. He can't just let them go unanswered, though. So Johnny grabs one of the legal pads and a pen and scrawls all the questions that he wanted answers to, page by page, tearing off and tossing each one aside, until he comes to the last sheet.
It takes him a moment to decide what question he wants to ask; he's starting to run out of things he's curious about. He decides to break the pattern. It'll be unexpected and he thinks Edgar needs more "unexpected" things in his life.
He leaves the last sheet on Edgar's bed, the words scratched deep and dark into the paper.
I'm sorry I killed you.
He was sure that, somehow, the sentiment was appreciated.